


It Is Not Necessary to Change

by brevitas



Series: Quicksilver [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Shapeshifters - Freeform, paranormal themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:41:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To a human, a shapeshifter is a slave. They are required at all times to wear their Collar with a Tag listing their owner and it is absolutely mandatory that they are not Strays.</p><p>In this vicious world Enjolras breathes revolution into the shifters and Grantaire would much rather drink than get involved with that pointless fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Is Not Necessary to Change

It always surprises Grantaire when he gets punched first (and really, it shouldn't anymore).

His head snaps back from the force of the knuckles at his jaw and he's knocked cleanly off his bar stool; he lands on his ass a foot back, spilling his beer all over his chest in the process.

"Fuckin' _filth_!" The man who hit him is standing over him now, and spits on Grantaire's face. "You should know better than to come into _my_ fuckin' bar and pretend to be fuckin' human!"

Another man grabs the first by the elbow and pulls him back, muttering something about, "Don't hurt him worse--police can still arrest you over that piece of shit."

Grantaire sighs and wipes blood off his mouth, climbing to a stand. No one offers to help him, and he's not surprised by the fact; his blood leaves a vivid cobalt smear across the back of his hand and even the patrons who hadn't heard the begining of the brawl will recognize what he is by that alone.

He takes his coat and manages a jovial grin through his split lip when he calls over his shoulder, "See you later, bitches," on his way out of the door. He can hear the bartender scrambling to catch him as the door swings shut and he laughs; the man's buddies will dutifully hold him back, just so as not to deal with the lawmen in this town.

It's bitingly cold outside and Grantaire pulls his jacket tighter, scratching at the slender leather collar hidden under his turtleneck. He walks without direction, wishing he had more beer than just what's soaked into his shirt, and ducks into an unfamiliar bar on that hope alone.

He stops right inside the doorway in surprise because it's full of his kind; shapeshifters give off a musty scent when they're excited and the air in here is cloying with it, dampening their individual smells. He gets a few apprehensive looks when he steps inside but ignores them; technically it's illegal to discriminate, and even if this is a bar designated especially for his kind, they can't throw him out for thinking he's human.

He orders a beer at the bar and winks entincingly at the tender, who shrugs him off (she's leggy and dark-haired and a fox type, and Grantaire hears that they're one of the wildest in bed). He doesn't bother to chase her further and settles at a table instead, watching with a mild sort of curiousity the group circled up in the corner.

It's loud in here, a jukebox along the wall blasting some indie punk song, and Grantaire angles his head in hopes of hearing a bit better. He catches snippets and frowns as he sips on his drink, scoots his chair over a few inches to up his chances.

"You here for Enjolras?" It's the bartender from before, the one with the narrow waist and the clever eyes. She wipes down his table as an excuse to lean over and say lowly, "I _figured_ that flirting at the bar was just an act."

He coughs on his beer and she grins at him, rubbing at a sticky spot near his elbow. "Trust me on this one," she says confidently, "Enjolras doesn't do men. He doesn't even do women. He's one of those, whaddya call 'em? Asexuals or whatnot. And trust me, it's not anything against shifters or anything."

Grantaire quirks an eyebrow but apparently she needs no more encouragement than that, and she continues gossiping. "He's starting a revolution, you know," she says, but is then distracted by the state of his face (which is apparently dismal, judging from her startled expression). "You want some ice for that?" She asks and he groans, reminded of the hurt.

"Sure," he says, using his sleeve to dab at the blood, and starts when she says loudly, "Aha! I _knew_ you were one of us!"

A blonde sitting in the middle of the clique at the corner glances up at that, and for a second he meets Grantaire's eyes; but then a brunette wearing glasses seated to his right says something and hands him a paper and the tenuous connection is severed.

"Ice, please," he says darkly, and the bartender chuckles and goes to get some.

She's momentarily waylaid by customers at the bar but returns quickly, tossing a Ziploc bag full of ice at him. "So what's your name?" She asks, pulling the other chair back with her foot and sitting lightly on the end. "Because I know everybody that comes in my bar, and I don't know you."

"Grantaire," he says.

She seems to approve of this because she grins and says, "I'm Eponine," and leans over to shake a hand that was not offered.

"So are you here for Enjolras?" She asks when it's been quiet between them for a few moments and Grantaire has returned to staring.

He looks back at her comment and snorts. "No," he says dryly, "I am not here for Enjolras."

He's heard about this revolution, and knows of it's popularity amongst the shifters and personally thinks it will go nowhere but jail--there isn't anything for the humans to gain through a slave revolt, and none but the stupid and the bored are liable to join. Without humans, protests compiled entirely of shifters can be legally hosed down, and beaten, and taken to prison, where the punishments doled out by the guards are only worse. He has no interest in becoming a matyr.

"I think he's on the right track," she says conversationally. "I mean, I'm just impressed that he's in it at all."

Grantaire frowns at her. "Why?"

Whatever she might have said is drowned out by the double doors being thrown open, and a general sort of chaos in the lobby. A squad of policemen shuffle into the bar, riot shields out, batons drawn; they look ready to fight, and Grantaire knows full well that they'd welcome anyone who even _thought_ about breaking the law with handcuffs.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Eponine breathes next to him, and hastens to put her head down when they gesture for it. Grantaire folds an arm under his forehead for a cushion and frowns at her, mouths, 'What'?

"That one in the front," she whispers, her voice pitched low so the humans are unable to hear her but Grantaire can just fine. "Inspector Javert--he's a total fuckin' asshole."

"Eponine," the man thunders, and he has an impressive voice that carries over the relentlessly genial tune rumbling out of the jukebox. "Where is Eponine?"

She stands, slowly, so the men have no reason to hit here, and looks at his chest rather than his eyes. "Yessir?" She asks calmly, and Grantaire can tell from how her hands are fisted that she despises being cowed like this.

"This is a routine check for Collars," he says smartly, his hands clasped behind his back. To the bar he says, louder, "Everyone bare your Tags and keep your heads down until my men get to you."

Grantaire tries to look perfectly collected as he reaches out and pulls his collar out from underneath his turtleneck, straightening the gleaming gold tag. He has the information engraved on it memorized, and repeats it under his breath to keep it straight. "Susan Byrd, 23 Baltimore Road, 557-6438." He has no idea if she's real or not and doesn't really care; pretending to have a home keeps him out of jail, and they won't hold him to doublecheck her information unless they have reason to think he's lying.

He breathes deeply to calm the rapid rise and fall of his chest and out of the corner of his eye watches the revolutionary group in the corner, who are all apparently legitimate; none of them look obedient, and while all have their heads inclined, not one appears afraid.

Inspector Javert unplugs the jukebox and the bar is silent, save for the talking of the policemen as they check the Collars. Grantaire is unsurprised to notice that all the patrons thus far are shifters, and gingerly presses the ice to his face while he waits for his turn.

A man sets his hand on his shoulder and says not unkindly, "Sit up," which Grantaire obeys. He frowns when he sees his jaw (now swollen and already mottled black and blue) and asks, "Did you get in a fight this evening?"

"Just some boys being boys, sir," he says politely, and the man tips Grantaire's chin back with his nightstick and reads the Tag. "This looks to be in order," he says shortly, and moves on to the next man.

Javert steps up to him and frowns at his face, looking somewhere between disgusted and umimpressed. "You should go home," he says. "Get your... Ms. Byrd to look at that."

"Sure," Grantaire is quick to say, but Javert pushes him back in his seat with his baton. There's a slight commotion in the rebel's corner but Grantaire doesn't dare look.

"Wait," he says. "How about I call her for you?"

Grantaire fights to swallow past the lump in his throat. "You can't," he says helplessly. "She's, uh, out of town."

Javert narrows his eyes and demands, "Then who's looking after you?" It's illegal for a shifter to be left alone, although the kinder owners frequently do it under the table. Grantaire shifts in his seat; anything he says here will send him to jail for the night and once they figure out Ms. Byrd doesn't exist, he'll be in jail for the rest of his life.

He licks his lips and is trying to decide what to say when that blonde from the corner stands and says, "I'm watching him."

Grantaire tries not to look too surprised; he manages a nod at Javert's suspicious look. "Yes," he says, "Enjolras is looking after me." (Give Eponine a kiss for telling him that one.)

Enjolras stalks forward and he moves like a hurricane, all tumultous energy that seems too dangerous to try and brave. "Here," he says, and holds his ID out for Javert. "This is my address, and this is where he's staying. You're welcome to come and check on him whenever you'd like; Ms. Byrd is going to be out of town for a while."

(So that's what Eponine meant; he's a human, involved in the revolution of the shifters.)

Javert writes down the address and looks at Grantaire one last time, but they both know that he really can do no more; he frowns and moves on.

The lawmen finish the bar in another half hour, and for once nobody is dragged off in chains. Javert seems less than pleased about this but Grantaire thinks that might just be the way his face looks. "Have a good night," he says as they leave, and Eponine walks them to the door.

"Christ," Grantaire groans when they're safely gone, slouching in his seat. Enjolras had returned to his corner but he gets up now and stops in front of Grantaire.

"It's dangerous not to have proper Tags," he reprimands, and Grantaire wrinkles his nose.

"It's also dangerous to be a Stray, so I pick the lesser of two evils."

Enjolras' eyes widen a bit at that and he asks, "You really are a stray?"

"Yes," he says irritably. "And now I have to lay low for a while because I didn't have the intellect to stay away from this fucking place."

He drains his beer and stands but Enjolras sets a hand on his shoulder to stay him. "Wait," he says, and smiles a bit. Anything Grantaire might have said dies in his throat; that smile is ridiculous, and it enhances his already unfairly blue eyes.

"You can stay with me for a few days," he offers. "I live with Combeferre and Courfeyrac too."

Grantaire glances at the two in the corner, who have heard their names and are looking up at them. Courfeyrac gives him a jaunty grin and is crowned with remarkably curly hair; he waves enthusiastically. The other one, Combeferre, is the brunette in the glasses, who offers Grantaire a calm smile.

"You mean you own them," he says dispassionately. "No thank you. I'm really not interested in becoming your new toy."

Enjolras frowns, and appears quite insulted. "I own them technically, yes, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac are my friends, and just because they wear Collars with my name on them doesn't mean I consider them my property."

Grantaire looks at him cautiously. Humans are not this kind, not ever.

But Grantaire _does_ need a place to sleep for the night, and he doesn't think one sleepover will kill him.

"Fine," he allows. "...thanks."

Enjolras smiles and gestures for him to follow, says, "You should come sit with us until we go home." Grantaire frowns again but he trails after him all the same, and pulls up a chair rather than sit petulantly on the floor.

He's surprised to find that two others are human, and discovers this by scent alone. The jukebox is turned back on and under the music Courfeyrac leans forward and asks him curiously, "Grantaire, what are you? Your smell is... weird."

Grantaire laughs and pines for another beer. "Mule," he says at random, and the group laughs, but when the chuckles die off Courfeyrac is still looking at him in interest. The rest are polite enough to leave him with that answer, though all of them know it was a lie.

"So, Grantaire," Combeferre says politely, "Are you interested in the revolution?"

Grantaire regrets walking into this bar at all.

**Author's Note:**

> so I made another thing
> 
> ahaha I just can't stop
> 
> title comes from this quote: "It is not necessary to change. Survival is not mandatory" by W. Edwards Deming.
> 
> uh series title is fairly obvious I think, quicksilver as in something always changing? haha pun on shapeshifters get it? :D
> 
> tumblr is idfaciendumest if you want to follow or talk to whatevs, and I love all ya'll


End file.
